


Catalyst

by airspaniel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-08
Updated: 2010-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-11 14:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only adrenaline.  Shock, or something like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [](http://entangled-now.livejournal.com/profile)[**entangled_now**](http://entangled-now.livejournal.com/) for round two of the [Five Acts meme](http://toestastegood.livejournal.com/550739.html). Prompts were "kissing" and "sex with clothes still on," and I threw in some mild exhibitionism and wall sex for good measure. Comments/crit always welcome!

The building behind them erupts with gunfire, a flurry of confused shots fired as the men inside realize their captives have disappeared.

Several seconds after that, the building simply _erupts_, orange and yellow and black and deafening against the night. It's incredibly impressive.

They don't even let it slow them down, scrambling through alleys and side streets, putting as much distance as possible between them and the remains of what had been a fairly major counterfeiting operation. Not that there's any evidence left of that now.

Lestrade will be furious. Hence the running.

They turn a final corner and slam to a stop against a brick wall. Dead end, but they've come far enough. John braces his hands on the wall and tries to catch his breath; Sherlock slouched back against the brick doing the same.

"Well," John manages between breaths. "That was fun."

Sherlock laughs, sudden and bright and breathless, and John doesn't have to look to know that they're wearing matching exhilarated grins. "You have a talent for understatement."

"And you have a death wish."

"You're the one who followed me," Sherlock retorts, breathing still labored.

"Never said _I_ didn't," John fires back, and he's not sure if he's laughing or gasping or both, but it's enough to make Sherlock laugh again.

"Touche."

John glances over then, and his attention is immediately caught by the bright smear of red on the side of Sherlock's face. Without thinking, he's reached his hand out, fingertips moving gently over the cut. It's small, just a scratch, and he swipes the blood away with his thumb, hand resting on the curve of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock, who is now looking at him curiously, and from entirely too close.

"You're bleeding," John says by way of explanation, though it doesn't really explain why he's still touching; why they're standing so close when they're both still breathing so hard. Why he feels more out of breath than ever.

"Risks," Sherlock says, somewhat cryptically, and kisses him.

_What?_

John finds himself pushed back against the wall, brick biting into the back of his head as Sherlock presses his full weight against him, keeping him pinned. As if he'd try to move, as if he'd try to _leave_ when he's got those lips, his _teeth_… dear _god_… He's got one hand curled up in Sherlock's hair, and he uses that to his advantage, pulling a little roughly until the angle suits him best; and Sherlock makes a small satisfied sound in the back of his throat.

"Adrenaline reaction," John pants, tearing his mouth away for barely a second, barely enough time to breathe before it's taken again. Sherlock's kiss is greedy, demanding, and in this as much as everything else, John has to let him have what he wants.

And what he wants, apparently, is to drive John completely mad. He can feel Sherlock's fingers cold at the small of his back, shoving up under his shirts to splay possessively against bare skin. Only slightly more surprising is the fact that his own hands have worked their way under Sherlock's coat, twined themselves around his belt to pull him in closer.

"Mm," Sherlock agrees, absently and too late, attention now fully focused on the small stretch of skin just below John's right ear; and John has enough awareness to be vaguely embarrassed about the noises he's making.

"Shock," he gasps, "it's just… _god_…" He can feel Sherlock smile against the skin of his throat, feel the man's breath hot over his pulse; his hand, reaching between them to, _oh…_

"Adrenaline," Sherlock repeats, breathless but damnably calm for someone with his hand on John's dick. A little too rough, a little too insistent, but _fuck_, it's exactly what he needs. "Is that your considered medical opinion?"

John doesn't rise to the bait, surges forward instead and bites Sherlock's lower lip, goading him into another hard kiss. Marshaling what self-control he has left, he undoes the buckle of Sherlock's belt, makes quick work of the button and the zip, pushing fabric out of the way impatiently until he can return the favor.

Sherlock inhales sharply, then exhales on the slightest of shivers, and John can feel in several places how his heart is racing.

Or maybe that's his own.

He can't think about it now, can't think about the fact that he might as well be naked here with his lunatic roommate and they're up against a wall in a _public place_ and _what the hell are they doing?_ Can't think about how, in all the unexpected things he was learning to expect, this was never, _ever_ one of them. Can't think about _anything_ other than _more_ and _yes_ and _Sherlock_.

Then the world goes briefly white, and he can't think at all. He's aware of sharp teeth on his shoulder, Sherlock's weight against him; aware of the hot, too slick, too sensitive space where bare skin touches bare skin, surrounded by the damp tangle of their clothes.

"Bloody hell," John says, intelligently.

And then, after a moment: "Bloody _hell_. That really just happened."

Sherlock huffs laughter against his shoulder. "A very astute observation, Dr. Watson."

"Oh, shut up," John rolls his eyes, but he's laughing, too. It's impossible for him to be truly irritated, given the circumstances.

"Make me," Sherlock retorts, grinning. John has never seen him this playful when there wasn't a corpse involved.

It's really rather nice.


End file.
